


Forgiveness

by Kestrealbird



Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: American Singularity rewrite, Angst, Dream Sequence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fionn actually has Birga! His real fucking spear!, Fionn getting the characterization he actually fucking deserves, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Massive Canon Rewrite, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, there's a reason both Dia's are tagged here uwu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrealbird/pseuds/Kestrealbird
Summary: To forgive others is an easy practice. But forgiving yourself? Now that's the hardest thing of all
Relationships: Fionn mac Cumhaill | Lancer & Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | Lancer, Fionn mac Cumhaill | Lancer & Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | Saber
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	1. Waves and Shimmers

**Author's Note:**

> Sup I'm Tea I hyperfixated on the Fenian mythos for a very long time, Fionn has more to his character than the bullshit Pursuit story (WHICH HE'S SUPER OOC IN BTW) and I'm forever pissed that Typemoon made that his entire character so I'm here to fix it! I have no idea how long this fic is gonna be but the drafted version is currently at 12K in my docs. Prepare for a lot of historical and mythos end notes oops
> 
> Also shoutout to Echo for dealing with me rambling in her DM's a lot I love you <3

All around Fionn the forest is screaming. He can feel each one tearing right through him, in his chest, his lungs, the soles of his boots as they pound against the dirt. He can’t tell if the screams are coming from him or somewhere else, but his throat burns each time he opens his mouth regardless, and he runs faster, faster, faster, hands catching on trees so he can hurl himself around corners, heedless of the branches tearing at his hair and ruining his braiding.

He doesn't know where he’s going - instinct driving him forward with a frantic, urgent importance - yet he refuses to slow down at all, guided by the vague, familiar shape of a dog. There’s a clearing up ahead, and he stops to catch his breath inside of it. 

This is where the fight started; he can see short smears of blood in the grass and against stones, broken foliage an easy path to find who he’s looking for.

Fionn tears his eyes away from the blood and forces himself to keep moving; forces himself not to think about whose it might be. The hound that’s leading him must be getting tired but he, too, keeps pushing himself onwards, loyalty forbidding him from stopping before he finds his master.

He’s never gotten lost in the forest before, but he swears that these pathways are endless - that trying to follow them is a useless endeavour, even as the blood changes from smears to splatters to rivers, becoming denser and thicker the further in he goes.

No matter where he runs, where he turns, the forest still screams. The foliage gives way to uprooted trees and shattered branches, yet over the sounds of screaming, Fionn hears a familiar voice. It rises over the cacophony, so clear it might as well be right beside him. He knows that voice. Knows it better than he knows the sound of his own, and the blood reaches up to his ankles, splashing up his legs, his hips, his torso, with every thump of his boots against the floor.

“Fionn? Fionn, are you here?”

Diarmuid’s voice sounds like it’s coming from everywhere and nowhere - all around Fionn and inside of his head at the same time. But he also sounds like he’s right next to him, as though he’s just a few seconds away, if Fionn can just turn one last corner -

He flings himself around that last, sharp turn, broken twigs scratching his face, and thinks, _please please please._

“Diarmuid?”

There’s no-one. Just an endless expanse of blood and fur and the familiar glint of Diarmuid’s spear floating against the red. It’s snapped in half and Fionn picks it up with shaking hands. The hound has disappeared. 

“Diarmuid!” Fionn calls out.

He waits a few seconds, and then, “Fionn? I can’t see you, Fionn, where are you?” Diarmuid’s voice is muffled - garbled, even - but Fionn tries his best to follow it anyway.

“I’m right here…” he mutters, staring at the trees around him, half of them broken and the other half wilting even though it’s the middle of summer. “I’m here,” he repeats, louder this time.

He doesn’t have the strength to run anymore, not with the blood soaking itself up to his knees, so he slowly wades his way through with gritted teeth and steeled determination instead.

“It’s cold,” he hears Diarmuid say and feels a shiver wrack itself through his bones. 

“I know, I know, I’m almost there, you’ll be warm soon.” 

He stumbles, swears, catches himself on something sticky hanging from the branches that he doesn’t dare think too much about, even as something else slides through his hair and leaves blood dripping down his face.

Diarmuid’s fine, he’ll be fine, Fionn will get there.

_You won’t._

He will.

 _You_ won’t.

**He. Will.**

_How_ is there so much blood? It can’t be all Diarmuid’s - has to be the boar’s blood instead. It was giant, afterall, and now it’s _dead,_ it _has_ to be, so it bled out everywhere and Diarmuid is _fine, fine, fine._

“Keep talking,” Fionn asks. Begs.

“Can’t,” is the quiet reply, so far away yet so close. “‘M tired.”

“Please,” says Fionn, swallowing the choke in his throat. “I need to know where you are.” No answer. “That’s an order, Diarmuid.”

Quietly, weakly, Diarmuid manages to say, “okay. Okay”

Fionn keeps walking until he can’t anymore - until the blood gets so high he has to work to keep his head above it, and then he just starts swimming instead, following Diarmuid’s voice like it’s his only lifeline - a beacon amongst the darkness. The forest isn’t screaming anymore. 

The deafening silence is somehow worse.

The end is always the same, no matter how many times Fionn does this; Diarmuid talks as best as he can, recounting old stories and adventures, and Fionn somehow manages to keep him going - to keep him _awake_ and _fighting._

(“Remember when you - when you got stuck in Clisare’s saddle?”

“And you had to cut me out, but you were so busy laughing at me that you nicked my ankle and got blood on your shoes?”

“Boots,” mutters Diarmuid, “they were boots, not shoes, and I still blame you for staining the fur.”)

("You have bad luck with giants."

"My own curse, I think."

"...it's karma for your narcissism."

"I'm wounded!")

(“It’s cold.”

“I know. I’ll warm you up though, yeah?”

“...”

“Diarmuid?”

“‘M awake. Jus’ tired.”

“You can sleep when we get home. Be a nice warm bed waiting for you, with those fluffy blankets you like so much.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is. It will be.”

“Fionn?”

“Yeah?”

“Stay with me?”

“...I’m not going anywhere.”)

At some point, Diarmuid stops talking, stops breathing, even, and Fionn tries calling out to him, but the blood rises into his mouth, choking back the words, and Fionn fights to keep himself from being dragged under the thickness of it, but his limbs get heavy and his vision blurs and Diarmuid _isn’t breathing, isn't talking, isn’t breathing, oh gods, please not again, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, let me save him, just this once let me_ save him _-_

He can see Diarmuid's body, distantly, propped up against a fallen tree, his visage hazy, and all Fionn has to do is just. Reach. Out.

In the nightmare, Fionn dies drowning in Diarmuid's blood, fingers mere inches away from his face, but the sound that leaves him when he wakes isn’t a choking gasp or even a scream - it’s nothing short of a wrenched out, burning _sob._

* * *

Here's the thing about dreams. Most of them don't have some grand overall meaning from the Gods - some secret message meant to help you decipher your own issues and warn you not to fuck up later down the line or X Bad Thing will definitely happen.

Dreams exist because the human brain gets bored looking at nothing. It needs stimuli to function, and when you're asleep and there's very little physical stimuli to assuage said boredom, the brain gets creative and fills in the blanks itself - sort of like a child making castles out of sand and stories out of a few toys and some old bedsheets.

Some people can control what they dream about. Some don't remember what their brain conjures up. 

But a nightmare is a wild, uncontrollable thing that always leaves a physical impression; restlessness, dried tear tracks, sore throats, scratches, exhaustion. 

Nightmares are fears and memories and feelings and ideas all twisted into tight, horrifying parodies of themself. 

Most dreams don't have greater meanings behind them. Nightmares, however, are nearly always rooted in facts.

…

Here's another fact about dreams: Fionn remembers every single one, including the nightmares, and has done ever since he acquired the Salmon. 

He wouldn’t call it a curse so much as “petty fish nonsense,” because the Salmon has always seemed particularly disgruntled that it got eaten, or maybe it’s just mad that Fionn doesn’t use it all that often - whatever the case, it’s petty and annoying and of all the things the Salmon has given him, this is the one he hates on a personal, _visceral_ level.

…

He’s haunted by nightmares far more often than he’s blessed by dreams.

* * *

Still shaking from his nightmare, Fionn makes his way to the bathroom with heavy steps, catching a glance of himself in the mirror and wincing at the bags beneath his eyes, the stains on his cheeks. The water feels good against his face for the first minute or so, but then the warmth of it wrenches him back to the feeling of blood cloying on his tongue and seeping into his hair and his clothes. He turns it to a colder setting, hoping to shock himself out of it, but that only reminds him of Diarmuid’s words, the quiet “it’s cold” echoing in his head like a wailing ghost.

Fionn groans and drags a towel down his face. At least the rough texture doesn’t trigger anything else from the nightmare. He pads back to his bedroom, and sits heavily at the wooden table near the window. The only things on here are a bottle of unopened whiskey and a bowl made of painted glass. Inside the bowl sits the leather cord that Fionn normally uses to tie his hair with, and a necklace made of iron, coated in fine silver, with two engraved tags attached to the chain.

He doesn’t have the energy to brush his hair, let alone style it, so most days the cord lays forgotten, and his hair remains loose about his shoulders - left plain and untampered. So unlike his norm.

The necklace though? That’s something else entirely.

He used to keep it in a square box lined with velvet and covered in so many protective runes that not even a giant hitting it full force with a war hammer could break it open. The box had stayed inside one of his drawers, and that drawer (the whole dresser, actually) had been covered in the runes too. 

To an outsider it might have seemed unnecessary. A paranoid protectiveness over something with very little value in the long run. But if they knew the real importance of the object - the _gravity_ of the thing - they’d understand why he did it. He doesn’t know why it was brought here with him, but he stares at it so often these days that he’d abandoned the box entirely.

He’d done so well with it back in his own era, too. Hadn’t even looked at it more than twice since he’d first stuck into that box and then shoved it to the back of his drawer and buried it behind a plethora of paperwork and other trinkets he didn’t actually need and, under normal circumstances, would’ve given away to someone else instead.

It took a week of being in - America, was it? Before he'd given up and took the necklace out of its box.

It stays inside of the little glass bowl, free to catch his eye whenever he enters the room. He’s never managed to win the battle of wills it takes not to look at the damn thing. He could take it out. Put it into a bowl that isn’t see-through. He never does, instead using any number of distractions and assurances and promises to avoid actually touching it again, as though it might burn him if he did.

No, it wouldn’t burn him, but he might end up doing something completely stupid with it instead. 

What would the harm be, if he did? The likelihood of it working was so low as to be non-existent, and even if it did work, what would be the point of it? To have his mistakes stare at him right in the face? To have the one person who stuck with him through it all finally decide that he’s not worth the agony, and put him out of his misery?

He’d deserve it. Probably wouldn’t even _try_ to fight it. But could the people of _this_ era afford him to throw away his own life so carelessly? No. Of course not. He’s the only reason they’re still managing to stay under the radar.

There’s only so much he can do by himself though and Diarmuid...Diarmuid would be _such_ a huge asset to have on his side again. Fionn is good at talking. They could probably come to some sort of agreement; a “you don’t kill me and I stay out of your way” kind of clause. 

Fionn bites his nail, fingers drumming against the table as he weighs his options. The pros far outweigh the cons. From a leader’s perspective, it’s a damn good plan. He’d be a fool not to do it. And from the perspective of a friend...well.

He’d already made up his mind the day he’d decided to take that stupid necklace out of its box. There’s already a circle drawn on his floor. The chalk has faded somewhat, but it should still be good enough to serve its purpose. 

There’s no harm in trying. None whatsoever.

_(And if it doesn’t work? What will you do then? It’d crush you, Fionn, to get your hopes up now.)_

He reaches for the whiskey first. Takes a long, long swig of it to ease his nerves, and then corks the bottle and places it somewhere on the ground so it doesn’t shatter if it falls over. The leather cord and metal chain have somehow gotten twisted together. It takes a few minutes for Fionn to finally untangle them, and when he does it just - feels _wrong,_ to keep them separated. 

The irony of it isn’t lost on him, and Fionn shakes his head to dispel those particular thoughts. His mind must be as clear as he can get it if he wants this to actually work. 

( _Does_ he want this to work? Yes. No. Yes. _Please fucking work._ )

Normally, when summoning a Servant, it’s advised that you stand outside of the circle, with your hand outstretched, a metaphorical barrier between yourself and the person you’re employing. A reminder that this is a contract of convenience; a job and nothing more. 

Those rules don't mean shit to him, though, so he stands just outside of the centre ring, and lays down the necklace with gentle care, arranging it so perfectly that the light from the moon catches on the tags with a soft caress. He then ties the leather cord into a bow and places it next to the chain. 

He glances briefly at Birga, propped against the wall, and decides to keep them there as a sign of goodwill. He’s not wearing his armour either; he’s unarmed and exposed. Vulnerable. An easy target. Hopefully, Diarmuid won’t immediately try to slice his throat as a result.

( _You’re actually doing this then?_

**Yes.**

_For your sake, I hope it works._

**...Me too.** )

He doesn’t outstretch his hand. That sort of barrier isn’t necessary. He holds them both out instead, palms up, elbows bent, an open invitation, arms spread wide and his eyes flutter once he feels the magic take hold. There is no grand display. No rush of power that shakes the windows or burst of light that blinds his eyes.

No, Fionn’s magic is an example of perfectly controlled, nothing more nor less than he needs. Water is his element, and so the circle pulses a soft, clear blue, the imaginary waves reflecting over his body as if he were watching the ocean through glass. It’s a welcome sensation. One he hasn’t indulged in a very long time.

But now he lets it trickle over his fingers and down his spine - invisible droplets rolling down his forearms and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. The incantation flows off his tongue like a song. Beautiful and mesmerizing. An ancient, near dead language springing to life with renewed vigor. 

Green shimmers its way beneath the waves, and black shadows creep in at the edges of Fionn’s vision. He feels no fear as the green rushes past him, as the shadows converge about the necklace. His words never once falter, though he sighs at the phantom touch of fingers combing through his hair.

The spell fades. The glow subsides. The waves roll back to the seas and leave his shores. The shadows have dispersed and only the green remains. But this green is different. Dark and solid instead of a faint shimmer. A green that he can touch and hold and -

Fionn falls to his knees, a near hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat as gold eyes slowly blink open and stare down at him with surprise. The command seal on the inside of his wrist doesn’t even sting.

It worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dog Fionn is following is M'Akolly, an Irish Wolfhound that Diarmuid canonically owned and took with him when he went hunting. 
> 
> There are different variants on what happened when Diarmuid fought the boar, including whether it was his spear or sword that broke in half upon the boar's hide. I went with his spear because in one of the game's CE's you see it broken inside the Demon Boar's mouth. The fight, in myth, lasted anywhere from 4 - 14 hours and could be heard by, like, literally everyone. The end scene was very gory
> 
> Unlike the game, I actually know what Fionn's real spear was called. It was a poisonous spear called Birga, best known for the fact that Fionn let the spear's poison sear into his flesh to keep him awake when he was fighting Aillen
> 
> I briefly considered coming up with my own Summoning Incantation but honestly? Fuck that. I designed Fionn's command seals [here](https://teatitty.tumblr.com/post/613127059263422464/no-spoilers-for-what-its-for-but-i-designed-a) however so have fun with those!


	2. Diligence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid has imagined this moment hundreds of times before. None of those imaginary scenarios ever prepared him for this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted plot to happen in this chapter and instead Diarmuid decided to hop on in and give us his POV on things so here we are! Also this fic is def gonna be a slow-burn kinda thing, and is also longer than I imagined it would be, which I blame Echo for cuz her long writing habits are contagious
> 
> Also a slight TW for mention of Fionn using alcohol to cope with grief

Diarmuid has imagined this moment before. Or, well, something like it anyway. He’s had - rather literally - all the time in the world to think about what he’d say and do if/when he ever met Fionn again, be that as a Servant on opposite ends of a conflict -

(He’d always hoped they’d be on the same side, but he’d never thought it’d be like this.)

\-- or if Fionn had ever set foot into the Otherworld himself, and sat down and just. Talked with Diarmuid, during one of those moments when his father had brought him back to life just so they could talk. He’d imagined a plethora of scenarios; everything from an argument to a fight to a casual greeting to a hug to - anyway. They always hinged on whatever Fionn would say first. And if Diarmuid had to be the one prepared with an opener? Well, he’d had quite a few of  _ those  _ stored away too.

Yeah. He’d imagined every fucking scenario he could possibly think of; had gone through enough dialogue choices you could write a series of ‘pick your own adventure’ books, right down to the tone of voice he’d use and what expressions he’d make, what actions he’d take.

He might as well have saved himself the trouble and burned all those non-existent books himself, because in none of his played out scenarios did he ever imagine  _ this  _ to be an option. What the fuck do you say when you end up being summoned as a Servant by the very friend you’ve been praying to see again ever since the day you fucking died and left him all alone to deal with the fallout?

What the fuck do you do when said friend falls to his knees right in front of you - he’s standing so close to the centre of the circle, how fucking dangerous is that, what if he’d pulled someone else on accident? Someone who would have slit his throat on sight? - a hysterical laugh spilling from his lips (dry, chapped, bitten) and bags so dark under his eyes it’s a wonder there’s any colour to his skin at all?

How does anyone react to this? “Hey, you look like shit, how's life been?” 

Sure. That’d be the best thing to say. Absolutely no way that could ever go wrong. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” says Fionn, voice cracked and bruised and  _ gods, no, what’s wrong, what’s happened,  _ “it actually worked. It’s  _ you. _ ”

Morrigan’s tits, this is bad. 

He rushes down to kneel in front of Fionn - to check if he’s injured or sick or - or any other number of things - and is completely unprepared for Fionn’s arms to latch around his neck and pull him down into a hug that’s less of a hug and more of a desperate, clinging embrace, tight enough that it’s a little hard to breathe, honestly, but he doesn’t even have time to worry about any of that because Fionn’s breathing is shuddered and there’s a bottle of half drunk whiskey on the floor that he’s only now noticing out of the corner of his eye.

That’s a lot to take in by itself, let alone literally  _ everything else. _

Whiskey has always had a bad effect on Fionn; gets him drunk a lot quicker than most other alcohols, and it’s never a fun drunk either. He doesn’t drink it unless he’s aiming to forget his own name, and that mindset only happens when he’s grieving. Who was he grieving? Someone from their past? Someone new? It had to be someone he was close to for him to reach out for Diarmuid when he’s in such a state already.

He’s one of the very few people who Fionn has ever allowed himself to cry in front of. One of the  _ only  _ people who’s ever seen him at his absolute lowest and helped pull him back to his feet. He  _ must  _ be in a desperate state if he’s managed to get through half of a bottle already. And Diarmuid knows that it was recent; the scent is too fresh on Fionn’s mouth to be any older than an hour.

Mages might not be aware of this, but when a Servant is first summoned it takes an average of ten minutes for them to completely assimilate to their new surroundings and digest all the new information that’s flooding their brain from the Grail. And to be summoned as a perfect recreation of how you were when you were alive? Instead of just a few aspects of your personality that have been cranked up to a heavy twenty? It’s like getting reborn. It’s like all those times when his father had brought him back from the dead just to have a chat. 

He used to hate it - being brought back to life over and over again just to fade back to death. Now he’s grateful for it, because it makes assimilating so much easier when you’re used to the weird floaty “not all there but definitely all there” feeling of your soul getting shoved back into your own body. Being summoned isn’t quite the same, but it’s close enough to matter.

(It’s less ‘getting your soul shoved back into your body’ and more ‘getting your very essence morphed and shaped into an approximation of a body’ but since you can still bleed and breathe and  _ feel, _ he thinks the comparison counts.)

One of Diarmuid’s arms settles itself behind Fionn’s back and his other hand threads itself through Fionn’s hair to hold his head in a gentle embrace. “Hey,” he says quietly, “I’m here. I mean, who else could it possibly be, right?”

That seems to be the right thing to say (maybe, hopefully,) because whatever energy Fionn had left immediately leaves him, and he goes completely limp in Diarmuid’s arms. 

More accurately, he passes the fuck out, because of course he does, the idiot. Judging by the bags under his eyes, he hasn’t been sleeping much, if he’s slept at all, and any energy he had left definitely got taken out of him by performing such a huge ritual. 

Diarmuid blinks his eyes a couple of times; less to adjust to the darkness of the room, and more to simply reorient himself as he tries to piece together the massive puzzle that is Whatever The Fuck This Is.

First of all, Fionn’s hair is blonde instead of white or silver or grey, and Birga stands in the corner. He’s a Lancer, then, which means that his magical capabilities are a lot lower than if he’d been a Caster or Saber. Exactly  _ how  _ low, Diarmuid isn’t exactly sure. Fionn is - and he really wishes he was joking here - probably a really fucking strong Servant, and his magical capabilities when he was alive were -

\-- well let’s just say that he’d be one hell of a fucking Caster. But Lancer’s aren't really built for that sort of thing, so how  _ much  _ of those capabilities carried over is anyone’s fucking guess. Was this his first spell, or had he performed others before it? He has enough mana to be a Master, at least, otherwise the Ritual would’ve failed spectacularly. 

Which, in retrospect, probably doesn’t mean a whole lot, actually. Wonderful.

So what now, then? Is he gonna just sit here on the floor with chalk all over his knees and a passed out Fionn in his arms? Or is he actually going to get up and put Fionn on the fucking bed so he doesn’t complain of cramping later?

Trick question; obviously he’s going to put Fionn on the bed, because there’s no way he’s up to dealing with Fionn’s particular brand of  _ whining  _ right now.

Picking Fionn up is a bit of a challenge, because currently he’s a whole lot of dead weight and they’re both still kneeling on the fucking floor, which isn’t an ideal position to be in when you’re trying to pick someone up to lay them in their own goddamn bed, but somehow, miraculously, thanks to over two hundred years of experience, Diarmuid manages to figure out how to stand them both fairly upright. 

Limp or not, Fionn’s arms are still a cage around Diarmuid’s neck, and Diarmuid might be strong but he’s not  _ that  _ strong, so he doesn’t even attempt to dislodge them. 

“Okay,” Diarmuid grunts, hoisting Fionn’s legs around his hips because it’s just easier to carry him that way. “You’re lucky that you’re asleep,” he mutters, “or I would’ve dragged you by you stupid fucking shirt instead.” That’s a bold-faced lie but it’s not like Fionn is awake to call him out on it in that cocky, self-assured way that he does.

(That cocky, self-assured way that’s equal parts attractive and infuriating. Because he knows he can get away with it. Knows that he’s the exception to every single one of Diarmuid’s carefully coveted rules, and Diarmuid knows that he knows and it’s -

_ Focus. _ Don’t go there.)

Asleep or not, Fionn doesn’t want to let go of Diarmuid apparently, so Diarmuid ends up kind of sprawled on top of him on the bed, awkwardly trying to shimmy Fionn under the blankets before he eventually just gives up and uses his own cloak instead. 

(He hasn’t worn this cloak in years. It’s made of dark wolf fur and goes all the way down to his knees. Oisín had loved it when he was a kid, so Diarmuid had always said that he could have it after he died. It had meant to be a joke, because Diarmuid had never actually planned on dying before Fionn’s bloodline had but -

Oisín had kept him at his word. He doesn’t know if the boy - and he  _ was  _ a boy, no matter how old he’d gotten - had ever actually worn it or if he’d just kept it as a memento, but the fact he’d taken it at all warms Diarmuid’s heart in an odd sort of way. It’s a little morbid, even for him, but he supposes that’s what happens when you die.)

Fionn will complain in the morning if Diarmuid lays down in his boots and leathers, so he dematerializes his armour - because that’s easier than trying to take it off manually with Fionn’s arms still around his neck - and toes off his boots with care. The cloak, thankfully, is wide enough that it can fit them both, and Fionn shuffles closer to Diarmuid’s body, a pained noise the only sound he makes. 

It’s a whimper and it pulls harshly at Diarmuid’s heart. He tucks Fionn’s head under his chin and entangles their legs with his arms around Fionn’s waist, hands rubbing soothing motions up and down his spine. While Fionn settles into a deeper sleep, arms finally loosening their hold on Diarmuid’s neck, Diarmuid takes stock of all that he is.

His necklace is a light sensation, the tags clinking with every movement. His leathers a dark blue - black, almost - with accents of green and gold. His hands are still gloved, and they’re green instead of blue, but his shirt is long-sleeved and white and he frowns at that. Most of his clothing was green with black detailing. The only white shirt he’d ever worn in his life had been one of Fionn’s, but there’s no reason for him to be wearing it  _ now. _

Not unless he was - but no. That wasn’t right either. Not enough metal armour to be a Saber. Too much leather armour to be a Lancer. Technically, it’s too much leather for both, because for all that he’d worn leathers and furs and gossamers when he was alive, as a Servant he much preferred more ‘modern’ clothing. 

What class had Fionn brought him over as, then? What weapons did he have on him? He could feel them, in the corners of his mind, but he couldn’t check what they were right now. 

Fionn was more important than all of that. Always more important than all of that. He sighs, and settles himself for a night of watching over his dearest friend.

Ugh. Dearest. That was Fionn, too, wasn’t it? Getting him to say such sappy shit. Not that  _ that  _ was anything new. 

The house they were in looked nice at least. Simple, but nice. The bedroom was a decent size and the wood did well to keep the warmth in, from what he could tell. Fionn wasn’t shivering despite his thin clothing, though that might’ve been Diarmuid’s cloak at work. Or the Whiskey in his system. Either way, he was warm, so there was no chance of him getting, like, hypothermia or something.

Where the hell  _ were  _ they, anyway? Not Ireland, that was for damn sure, and not Japan either. He’s been there before. In what time he couldn’t say, which was one of the most annoying things about being a Servant. Existing outside of Time, hopping from one place to the next. Past, future, present, it all kind of blurs together after a while.

He supposes that's another thing he has over most everyone else. Being raised in the Otherworld means he’s used to operating outside of human conceptions of time and history, but he spent so long in the mortal realm that trying to parse all of that still gives him a headache, so he stops trying to.

The point is that he’s never been here before, wherever ‘here’ is, so he doesn’t know if there’s anyone else that Fionn’s living with or not. The house is empty save for the two of them at the moment, but until Diarmuid knows the full scope of whatever mess Fionn has gotten himself into -  _ again  _ \- he’s not going to trust anyone who might walk through the door.

Good thing he was used to sleeping light.

“Honestly,” he huff's quietly, “the things you get us into.”

It takes a very long time for Fionn’s arms to loosen enough that Diarmuid can extract himself from the bed, but he doesn’t go all that far. By which he means that he decides to snoop his way around the house, silent as the grave even with the creaking doors (he winces everytime he opens one, and stiffly waits in place just to make sure the noise hasn’t woken Fionn before proceeding) and what he finds...doesn’t really tell him much, except that the name of the place their in is “America” thanks to a newspaper on the kitchen table, and that Fionn is definitely the only one living in this house at present.

The cozy little house is big enough for two people, including a bedroom that isn’t being used but is still cleaned regularly enough that there’s no dirt on the floor or dust on the sheets, yet the shelves and cupboards only have enough food for one. 

Knowing Fionn, he’s probably been skipping meals if he’s busy enough to be missing sleep, so Diarmuid files away where all the cooking utensils are and sets back to exploring the house while he tries to think of what sort of breakfast to force Fionn into eating when he wakes up.

There’s no proper front room, only a kitchen and dining space that have clearly been converted to operate as one, with cushions on the floor and everything, as is Fionn’s way. Only one door is locked in the entire house. Diarmuid had jostled the handle a little, briefly considered entering it anyways, and ultimately decided against it. Fionn is entitled to whatever secrets he wants to have; he’ll show Diarmuid what's in here himself if it’s anything important, or if he just  _ wants  _ to.

Whatever’s in that room could be anything, from something banal like paperwork to the dead body of somebody Fionn murdered and now doesn’t know what to do with. Either one is just as likely, but a quick sniff near the door rules out any corpses, which is a little disappointing, honestly, because that means it probably  _ is  _ just paperwork, which is really fucking boring and not at all fun to tease him over.

...Maybe he should leave out any thoughts of teasing or ribbing until he knows what Fionn’s going to be like when he’s sober. He’s an absolute mess on whiskey, and Diarmuid doesn’t particularly like the idea of having to walk on metaphorical eggshells around him just so he doesn’t try to tear his own hair out.

“Shit,” he mutters, bracing his hands against an empty cabinet in the hallway, “maybe  _ I’m  _ too sober for this.”

“Never a good sign when  _ you’re  _ the one saying it.”

By the grace of the Gods he somehow doesn’t end up jumping out of his fucking skin, but he still jerks back to look at Fionn leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and a distant gaze in his eyes.

“Uh. Hey, Fionn.”

So that’s the best he can do, huh? Great. At least it’s better than, “you look like shit, how’s life been?”

“Hey,” says Fionn, just as quietly as Diarmuid did. 

Looks like neither of them knows what to say, but at least they’re on the same extremely awkward page. 

“So…” Fionn ventures after a few seconds. “What’re you doing? Around the house, I mean.”

“Not much. Just, ya know.” Diarmuid shrugs. “Looking it over. Making sure you actually have food in here.”

Fionn’s lips twitch into a shadow of a smile. “You just got here and you’re already judging my eating habits? Such faith you must have in me.”

“A faith that’s completely justifiable considering you look like shit.”

So much for not using that one, then. It even sounds accusatory once he says it outloud, which is really not  _ at all _ what he was going for in the slightest. Yikes.

“...I really don’t have a defense for that,” says Fionn.

“No,” Diarmuid agrees, “you really don’t. Luckily I’m in a generous mood, and I am willing to overlook -” he gestures broadly at Fionn - “all of this, so long as you actually  _ eat  _ something in front of me.”

_ That  _ time the accusation is intentional and Fionn looks momentarily stunned by it before his smile warms into a familiar softness and the distance in his eyes fades just a little. Good. The bitter sadness emanating from him earlier simply hadn’t suited him. He’s supposed to be all “breath of spring and warmth of summer” not “dying leaves in autumn and frozen lakes in winter.” 

That’s Diarmuid’s thing, not Fionn’s. Opposites attract, right? 

Fionn chuckles, pressing his bottom lip with his thumb as he considers the proposition. “Alright,” he nods, “but only if you cook for me.”

“What makes you think I’m going to?”

“You can’t  _ possibly  _ expect  _ me  _ to do it? I’m in a delicate state after bringing you here.”

“Excuse me?” Diarmuid does his best to sound indignant, but a laugh works it’s way up through his lungs without permission. “You’ve pulled me out of limbo just so I can cook for you? What, am I a butler now?”

Because he’s an absolute bastard to his core, Fionn actually makes a show of thinking it over while they both make their way back to the kitchen-slash-dining room. It’s the biggest room in the house, and you have to pass through it to get pretty much anywhere, so it only takes a minute or so, but that minute is enough to make Diarmuid groan at the look on Fionn’s face.

“Don’t even,” he warns.

“Already have, I’m afraid,” says Fionn with complete unrepentance. 

Neither of their smiles have disappeared, and despite their jesting, Fionn still helps him prepare a late night breakfast-slash-dinner. “Bastard,” Diarmuid tells him anyway.

“You love me.”

He does. By the Gods, he does. 

“Shut up and chop the carrots already.”

“Whatever you say, m’lord.”

“Don’t make me shove you out of this kitchen,” Diarmuid half-heartedly threatens.

Fionn goes suspiciously silent for long enough that Diarmuid worries he might’ve overstepped too soon and he casts a glance to see Fionn’s head hanging low, hair obscuring his face, and the chopping knife held a little too tightly in his hand.

“Fionn? You okay?”

Fionn clears his throat. “Yeah,” he lies. “Just a little tired is all.” His smile is a cringe this time. “Haven’t been sleeping all that well,” he admits. It doesn’t sound like a lie and all previous evidence points to it being truthful, so Diarmuid just nods and says, “alright.”

They don’t speak again until the food is on the table. It’s only a small portion, but, unsurprisingly, it takes a while for Fionn to finish it. He didn’t have to. Diarmuid would’ve been satisfied with him eating just half of it - hell, he’d even looked away out of politeness just in case - but he does it anyway and neither of them makes a move to get up from their seats.

“I didn’t bring you here just because I wanted to see you.” 

Diarmuid tilts his head to the side with a curious hum and steadfastly ignores the flutter in his gut those words bring him. 

(“Just because I wanted to see you” isn’t “I didn’t want to see you” so Fionn summoned him because he...missed him? But then why was he grieving? Was he - grieving Diarmuid? Even after all this time? Why? Surely, he’d gotten over it.

…

Hadn’t he?)

“There’s a war brewing.” He turns to meet Diarmuid’s eyes, steel in his voice and crashing waves in his eyes. “And I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Otherworld: this is both the realm of the fae and the realm of the gods in Irish Mythos. The gods themselves are actually also Fae! Go figure!
> 
> Diarmuid brought back to life: Diarmuid's foster father, Aengus Og, was capable of bringing the dead back to life, either temporarily or permanently depending on source. It's canon that, after Diarmuid's death, he used to bring Dia back to life whenever he wanted to chat with him
> 
> "Slit his throat on sight": Diarmuid is specifically thinking about Goll mac Morna here, who murdered Fionn's father and tried to have Fionn killed for the first 10 yrs of his life. Even though Fionn became his boss (and Goll genuinely respected him!), Goll only worked for him bc he was getting paid. In some of the many variants of Fionn's death, Goll inevitably betrays him, and plays a direct hand in said death 
> 
> Fionn p much "looked perfect" his entire life and was very particular about his hair which is why I'm putting emphasis on how bad he looks in this
> 
> Morrigan's tits: just think it's funny to imagine Diarmuid saying stuff like this lol
> 
> Whiskey: the earliest mention of Whiskey in Ireland is actually from 1405 but since Fionn has all the knowledge of the universe in his thumb, I decided to HC that he was the OG inventor of it but just kept how he did it a secret because of the effect it had on him. And Fate canon gave the Greeks nanotech and mechs I'm allowed to take liberties
> 
> Crying: Fionn, according to legend, only cried twice in his life. However, since both of these instances were public, I like to think there was a lot of "behind closed doors" crying too
> 
> Fionn's hair colour is very important, but there'll be more on that later. Also Fionn's birth mother was a druid and he was raised by a druid. In Fate canon, it's been confirmed that he "mastered celtic magecraft" soooo yeah
> 
> Oisín: Literally impossible for you not to know him if you know about Fionn
> 
> Metal armour didn't come into wide use until the medieval period which spanned the 5th - 15th centuries. Diarmuid and Fionn lived from the 2nd - 4th centuries (Fionn maybe lived till the 5th depending on story) so they would've worn leathers instead
> 
> White Shirt: Look at Sabermuid's 3rd ascension and you'll see the popped collar of a white shirt under his armour


End file.
